


l'appel du vide

by fraternite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trouble isn't that Courfeyrac doesn't think about the consequences of his actions.  He <i>does</i> realize that by picking a fight with a group of men twice his size he may be putting himself in danger.  He just doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	l'appel du vide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazyinjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/gifts).



Enjolras saw the disaster coming a second before it happened. He'd seen the cluster of workmen pass, smelled the scent of alcohol they carried on their clothes; he'd heard, on the edge of his awareness, the crude comment one of them dropped, laughing. Even before Enjolras could locate the target of the slur (a thin woman crouched in a doorway, head bowed under a tattered shawl), he saw Courfeyrac stiffen beside him, his lips tightening, cutting off his story about falling asleep in a lecture.

And Enjolras knew what was about to happen.

"How  _dare_ you, Monsieur!" Courfeyrac snapped. The workmen, doubtless unused to being addressed as "Monsieur," made no sign of even noticing. Four of them were already well down the street, but two had stopped to laugh, drunkenly, under their breaths at the poor woman, who flinched away from the sound and wrapped her rags closer around her face. Enjolras reached out to grab his friend's arm--but it was already too late.

"She is a human creature just as you are, and you owe her the same respect you'd show any honest man!" Courfeyrac strode directly up to the closest two and--as they blinked down at the furious little dandy, all of one and a half meters, who had appeared out of nowhere--landed a terrific punch on the shorter one's nose.

It was probably thanks to the element of surprise (and to the fact that Courfeyrac was a full head head shorter than either of them, even counting his top hat) that he managed to get in a second punch at all. This one actually made the second fellow stumble back half a step, his hand flying to his chin with a curse.

"In treating a woman like an object, sir, you are contributing to the oppression of your entire class," Courfeyrac informed him, panting slightly. "Instead of looking at women as your commodities or your servants, you should see them as allies--as people whose strength, joined to your own, could-- _umph!_ " He doubled over around the taller man's fist.

Things went very quickly after that. By the time Enjolras made it over to them, Courfeyrac was curled up on the ground and the workman with the bleeding nose was already being pulled away by his friends, who were urgently reminding him of the trouble he could get in for beating an aristocrat. The other fellow, still holding his cheek, aimed one more heavy kick at Courfeyrac's stomach, then hurried off after the others, scooping up Courfeyrac's top hat as a trophy.

Once the workmen were safely out of sight, Enjolras went to peel Courfeyrac up from the cobblestones. As Enjolras helped him sit up, Courfeyrac spluttered and spat blood onto the street, gingerly feeling his head, as if not convinced it was in the same configuration as it had been earlier.

"Wait--careful, you'll get blood all over your clothes." Enjolras pulled out a handkerchief and sopped up the blood welling up from the gash on his forehead. "Can you hold this in place?" Courfeyrac's hand fluttered vaguely around, then settled on the square of cloth.

Out of handkerchiefs (really, it was a marvel he even had one on him), Enjolras used his cravat to dab at the smaller cuts and the blood from Courfeyrac's nose.

"Are you satisfied with the results of your chivalry?" Enjolras asked wryly.

Courfeyrac grinned up at him through split and bloody lips. "When one tilts at windmills, one expects this sort of . . . excitement."

Enjolras frowned, squinting into Courfeyrac's eyes. "Are you all right? You're talking very strangely."

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically. "It is a  _literary_ allusion, Enjolras. I'm fine. Really," he grumbled, struggling to keep his lips from twitching with a smile, "you must make more of an effort to expose yourself to the arts, my friend."

"Come along," Enjolras said, ignoring him. "I'm taking you to Combeferre."

"There's no need to involve Combeferre," Courfeyrac protested as Enjolras helped him to his feet. "I told you, I am . . ." He trailed off, swaying a little, and Enjolras caught him by the arm. Courfeyrac blinked, then chuckled gently. "All right, lead on."

Combeferre's rooms were, luckily, just a few blocks away. Courfeyrac leaned heavily on Enjolras, but kept up a cheerful, if faint, patter the whole way--on the merits of Spanish literature and the difficulty of finding good translations and a dozen other topics whose relation to any of the events at hand passed Enjolras by completely. By the time they reached the building where Combeferre lived, though, Courfeyrac was stumbling a little, and he looked up at the third story with trepidation.

"We could call Combeferre down to us," he suggested plaintively. "Throw pebbles at his window, like in a romantic novel? He can bandage me up in the street, and I'll stay right here. I'll live in a barrel, like that Greek fellow Grantaire is so fond of."

But at that moment, the door opened, and Combeferre stepped out, bundled up to the nose. He stopped, looked Courfeyrac and Enjolras up and down, eyes wide.

"Not political," Courfeyrac said quickly. "Just Courfeyrac, being an idiot again." He flashed him a wobbly, but charming, smile. Combeferre sighed and turned back to open the door, beckoning them inside.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Courfeyrac protested.

"I was just stepping out to get something to eat for lunch," Combeferre said. "My next lecture isn't until this afternoon. Come inside."

"We might need a bit of help on the stairs," Enjolras suggested, and Combeferre obligingly positioned himself on Courfeyrac's other side, stooping a little so Courfeyrac could get his arm over his shoulders. They half carried him up the stairs, and Enjolras helped him into Combeferre's bedroom to sit on the bed while Combeferre brought out clean linen and a basin of water.

Combeferre frowned as he peeled away the handkerchief Courfeyrac had still been clutching to his forehead. "What kind of weapon did they have?"

"A boot," Enjolras said.

"You needn't mock, Enj," Courfeyrac mumbled petulantly. "Boots are dangerous, treacherous creations; the best of men have sometimes been laid low by them. Think of . . . eh . . . well . . . I'm sure there are lots of examples. I can't think of them right now, I'm afraid. My brain's gone all fuzzy."

"I'm not surprised, if someone's been kicking you in the head," Combeferre said matter-of-factly. He dabbed at the cut, heedless of Courfeyrac's whine. "Although it looks like it will bruise and swell more than it bleeds. What did you do to make someone so angry?"

"I-- _mmh_ \--I suggested he reconsider the, the . . . political implications of--ow, Combe _ferre!--_ certain comments he made about members of the fairer sex. And I hit him."

"And his friend," Enjolras added. "With four more of their friends a dozen paces away."

"And did you think about the possible consequences before you decided to engage in this show of virtuous civic spirit?" Combeferre asked as he tied a bandage around Courfeyrac's forehead. The tremor in his voice was so very faint, Enjolras almost wondered whether he was imagining it.

"I _did_ think," Courfeyrac said, suddenly serious. "I'm not a child. I was aware of the possible consequences. I simply decided to do it anyway."

Combeferre's lips pressed tightly together, but he just asked, "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

When Courfeyrac didn't answer, Enjolras supplied, "They were kicking him in the stomach."

"Jacket and waistcoat--off," Combeferre said briskly. Courfeyrac pulled them off, wincing, and lifted his shirt for Combeferre to examine the deep red bruises that mottled his torso. Combeferre felt his sides carefully, checking for broken ribs, and Courfeyrac bit his lip and didn't make a sound.

"Those will be colorful in a few days," Enjolras remarked, trying to dispell some of the chill in the room.

"Sore, too," Combeferre said. "Maybe they'll keep you out of trouble for a few days."

"Don't lecture me," Courfeyrac pouted. "I'm very sleepy."

"You can rest for a while here," Combeferre said. "It's probably better than walking back to your own rooms." He bent down to pull off Courfeyrac's boots and helped him swing his legs up onto the bed.

"Don't be angry, Combeferre," Courfeyrac yawned. "You know I couldn't help it."

"I know," Combeferre said quietly. "Go to sleep." He tossed a blanket over Courfeyrac, and began to gather up the rags and the basin of water.

"When I was a little boy," Courfeyrac said muzzily, "I used to jump off high things. Broke my leg twice, and sprained my wrist." His eyes blinked shut. "I knew it was stupid, but I couldn't help myself. I had to . . . see what . . . happened."

Combeferre beckoned silently to Enjolras, and they slipped out of the room.

In the main room of the apartment, Combeferre washed his hands at the basin while Enjolras tried to convince himself the silence was not as cold as it had been a few minutes ago.

Combeferre finally broke the silence. "Sometimes . . . he is a very difficult man to have for a friend." His voice was soft, but the tightness of his shoulders belying his calm tone.

"It was for a noble cause," Enjolras said quickly. "That is, it didn't actually accomplish anything, but it was for the sake of another, and the insult was more than enough to demand an answer. He doesn't get into fights just for the rush of it, Ferre."

"That's not what I meant." Combeferre wrung out the rag and turned around to face Enjolras. "I wish--how I _wish_ \--I could say he's just an impulsive child picking fights, a young man who acts without thinking. But it's not true."

Enjolras frowned. "I agree with you--Courfeyrac is spirited, but he's hardly a child. But . . . is that not a good thing?"

Combeferre sat down heavily at the table, staring at the blood-stained cloths he'd left there. "No--it's the whole problem. If it were recklessness, he might learn to stop and think. But Courfeyrac . . . he sees the danger to himself, and _he simply doesn't care_. Not when someone else is being threatened."

Enjolras crossed the room and put a hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "He's fine, you know."

"Today he is--and why not? It was just a few poor men with short tempers and sturdy boots." Combeferre looked up and met Enjolras's eyes. "But with the things we're doing . . . one day, it will be guardsmen, and they're going to have guns. And Courfeyrac isn't going to care, because we're fighting for every downtrodden man, woman, and child, and he cares about them _so much_.

"I know, I know," Combeferre sighed, rubbing his eyes. "There's a chance we all may die; I've known that for months. I don't like it, but I accept it. It's just . . . Courfeyrac. I see him do something stupidly, magnificently brave like this, and I can see what's going to happen. He'll die for the sake of the people of France--and he'll be _happy_ to do it."

Enjolras tried to think of something to say to comfort Combeferre--but found himself without words. He couldn't say Combeferre was wrong. And "So will I" seemed entirely the wrong thing for this moment.

So he simply clasped his hand, knowing Combeferre would understand his intent, even without words.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful crazyinjune asked for Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac in any combination, which I was thrilled to write . . . but then the story started ending up being more about Courfeyrac's character than anyone else's. (Fortunately, we think alike--Courfeyrac-centric fic was her second request). I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> (And sorry it ended up so similar to your most recent fic--I didn't intend that, but it sort of happened. P.S. Everyone, go read crazyinjune's "Anything You Say Can And Will Be Held Against You," which deals with similar themes to those in this fic, but does it much better!)


End file.
